


Wayfaring Strangers

by simplysirius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Jily Fluff, M/M, Pining, Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Smut, Wolfstar AU, jily, jily angst, sirius x remus, wolfstar, wolfstar angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:53:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29380926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplysirius/pseuds/simplysirius
Summary: In 1940, German soldier Remus Lupin is sent to Paris, where he meets French resistance fighter Sirius Black. An enemies-to-lovers slow burn exploring what happens when two boys risk death, friends, and each other to take down an entire country.Featuring the Black Brothers Brigade, defiant Private Lupin, British Captain Potter, and Field Nurse Evans.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	Wayfaring Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr @simplysirius for a new fic every day! I also take requests :)

“Private Lupin?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Sixteenth district.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Newly enlisted Private Remus Lupin shakes in his boots, knobby knees knocking together no matter how tightly he locks them in place. The late July Parisian breeze is warm on his cheeks, but his blood runs cold every time a military-green car rumbles down the cobblestone streets, every time a fresh group of soldiers file into the square.

Eighteen, he’s a man in age only; his voice is deep, but crackling, his chest not yet broad with muscle or confidence, his rounded cheeks still that of a young boy. His uniform hangs off his scrawny shoulders, Commander Snape convinced he’ll bulk up in no time; the days spent holding Paris are long and the guns are heavy, the guilt even worse. The red band suffocating Remus’ arm sears a tattoo into his flesh, one that will follow him to the end of this bloody war, one that will leave a permanent mark.

Commander Snape calls out more assignments, stalking down the line of new recruits who respond to their duties with unwavering devotion and a bite to their vibrato, all too eager to use the guns strapped to their shoulders. Some are stationed on the southern edge of Paris to protect the railroad shipments, many only staying in the city for a few days before finding their place on the battlefield. Remus is the only man assigned to the Sixteenth District. He doesn’t want to know why.

“Now men, remember,” Commander Snape barks, handing his papers to an orderly. He sticks his slender nose high in the air, the afternoon sun catching on the shiny silver of his hat, emblazoned with an eagle, its wings spread wide, mid-flight. “Any civilian associated with the resistance is to be detained without question. If they run, you shoot. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir!” The recruits cry, raising their hands in the air to salute their Commander, but most importantly, their Führer. Hanging from the building behind him, a long crimson flag rippled in the warm summer breeze, the black Swastika bearing down on the men, who have no choice but to obey. “Dismissed!”

The men head towards their assignments, but Remus stays a moment longer, staring at the flag. He imagines flames licking at the fabric, burning the colors black until the wind carries the ashes into the Seine. His country will fall, and Remus will be the first to celebrate the toll of the bells of Notre Dame.

Remus has never been to Paris. His parents never had the money, and he was content in his small town outside of Berlin. He sees the beauty in the curves of the old buildings, the cafés with the frilly awnings, the trees lining every street, but it’s ugly ,too. Gone are the beautiful blues and whites and reds of the French flag, gone are the fabled parks alive with trilling violins and Parisian painters, gone are the smiling faces enjoying their city. Paris is dull, not even the sparkling Eiffel Tower lights enough to cut through the grey. It’s not so much different now than Berlin. Will he ever see a life of peace again?

The morning seems so far away now, leaving his home, leaving his parents crying at the door, leaving everything Remus has ever known, for what? A war he wants no part in; a war that should never even started, all for a man who does not care if Remus lives or dies, only if Germany is left standing after his funeral. Where is the school lesson that teaches a boy how to say goodbye, knowing he will never return? How to make it through a war without losing himself?

This war may take everything from Remus. It will not take his humanity.

***

“I have a fantastic idea.”

“The last fantastic idea you had almost got us killed.”

Sirius Black shrugs, undeterred. “Only because the goddamn rats blew our cover. This one is foolproof.”

There’s an easy confidence in his stride as he passes Germans with knives on their belts and daggers in their eyes, marching down the cobblestone streets with his sharp jaw clenched shut. His chest puffs out, proud of the few thin hairs he’s managed to grow, his ribs not yet protruding because, even through their rations, his family eats well. The full dinner plates may have something to do with nimble fingers stealing loaves of bread from unsuspecting targets, but Sirius’ mother doesn’t know that.

Beside him, his brother sighs, motioning for Sirius to continue. Two years his junior, Regulus walks with his eyes lowered, not quite to the street, but somewhere around the soldiers’ waists, hiding his defiance deep in his pockets, where his nails leave marks in his palms. He shares Sirius’ lightning eyes and the same smug twist of his lips, but where Sirius rushes, Regulus waits. Where Sirius attacks, he defends. Where Sirius goes, he follows.

“I think we should go to the Sixteenth tonight.”

“I don’t want to go all the way across the city,” Regulus groans, his feet already aching at the thought. “What’s wrong with the Eleventh?”

“Katia heard Commander Snivellus got a fresh pack of rats today. He sends the ones he thinks will bite it first to the Sixteenth. Easy picking.”

The boys stop in their tracks, allowing a pack of German soldiers to march across the street in front of them. Sirius narrows his eyes as the men laugh, baskets of pungent cheese and bottles of wine hanging from their hands. Sirius doesn’t remember the last bottle of wine he stole from underneath the counter; in the early days of the occupation, just a few weeks ago, there wasn’t much to do other than sit on the roof and drink, watching smoke rise in the distance. Even Regulus acquired a taste for the sour nectar.

When they’ve passed, Sirius and Regulus continue walking, turning up a sloping , tree-lined street, where the houses are covered in crawling ivy and roses grow from the flower boxes beneath the windows. It’s quieter up here, the Germans not yet taking advantage of the Labyrinth of alleyways and narrow streets, perfect for hiding. Perfect for sneaking.

“That does sound tempting. What time?”

“Nine thirty,” Sirius answers automatically. He’s had an entire day thinking up the perfect plot, ever since Katia mentioned the new recruits flooding the city at lunch. Her father runs the best bakery in Montmartre; the Germans are almost as eager to buy his bread as they are to spill their secrets. She’s innocent, with floral dresses and rosy cheeks; the soldiers think her too stupid to understand the intricacies of war, unaware her wide smile is not one of affection, but of malice.

Regulus frowns. “It will hardly be dark by then.”

Sirius hums in agreement. “We’re the Black brothers. We’ll blend in just fine.”

Their home is not the nicest on the block, but it’s a home, in one piece, nonetheless, which is more than most people in the outer ring of the Sixteenth can say. It’s enough for his family. For Regulus and Sirius to have their own rooms. For his mother to host her dinner parties, which are slowly losing members, though no one dares say why—Sirius misses Mr. Arenberg’s pies. For his father, who sits in an armchair in his study, staring out the window during the day, staring at the ceiling from his bed at night; he doesn’t move, save for the tremor that shakes his shoulders, never quite disappearing after the First Great War.

His mother is in the kitchen when they arrive, a plaid apron covering her yellow dress, peering into a pot of stew on the stove. Walburga’s short black hair is pinned and curled, the red paint staining her lips accentuating her pale skin.

“ _Bonjour_ , boys,” she greets, “how were your days?”

“Good,” Regulus chirps.

“Fine,” Sirius adds; their answers don’t change day by day.

“Let’s listen to the radio,” Regulus suggests, bounding over the couch to adjust the knobs. If de Gaulle, leader of the French Resistance, is planning a follow-up to his rousing speech just a month ago, demanding the French not give into the occupation so easily; the brothers will be damned if they miss it.

“Ah, ah,” Walburga tuts, glaring at her sons. “Have you practiced today?”

“No, Maman,” Sirius and Regulus said in unison, not needing to look at their mother to see her slender finger pointing towards their instruments on the shelf.

Sirius’ violin is nicer than Regulus’— _older brother perks_ , as he likes to say—and though the strings leave callouses on their fingers, practice is important. It keeps their hands nimble, their muscles strong and joints fluid, preparing them for the night ahead. Dark circles are a permanent fixture of Sirius’ appearance, but his mother never notices, and on the worst of days, when the nights are long and outcomes uncertain, he steals some of her alabaster powder. Regulus thinks it makes him smell like an old lady.

“I’m sure your father would like to hear. Play for him before dinner.”

Sirius is quite sure his father would like to be left alone, but he and Regulus slump into the study anyways.

Orion Black is a fraction of the man he used to be, all watery eyes and translucent skin, and, even when he moves to his bed, the leather armchair retains the curve of his frail shoulders.

“ _Bonsoir, Papa_ ,” Sirius says quietly, not expecting him to do anything more than blink. He doesn’t.

Regulus tucks his violin under his chin. “Royal March of the Lion?”

Sirius nods, taking a deep breath as he readies his instrument.

The first note belongs to Regulus, low and ominous, before Sirius pulls his bow across the strings, full and fierce. Together, they follow the peaks and valleys of the song, the notes memorized from hours of constant practice, skilled fingers never missing a beat. Regulus plays with his eyes closed—he’s always been better than Sirius—and it’s one of the few times he looks his age, a young man with a smoothed face and small teeth, too young to fight in a war, too old to stand by and do nothing.

After dinner, Sirius retreats to his bedroom. _Lots of studying_ , he insisted. It’s not a lie entirely; Sirius studies his well-worn map of Paris, the edges tattered and the color faded, much more interesting than preparing for university placement exams. Marked with lines and crosses and symbols that mean nothing to anyone except for Sirius and Regulus, he keeps it in a secret place where no one—not even the Germans, should they decide to infiltrate their house—could find.

There’s a fake floorboard underneath his bed, carefully covered by boxes and suitcases, only accessible using nimble fingers and a sharp knife to pry the edges away from the nails. Sirius made it one summer a few years ago, back when the setting sun didn’t bleed the streets red from the light filtering through the German flags, back when his biggest worry was learning how to shave, not survive. The compartment used to hold vulgar magazines and a stash of cigarettes, but Sirius quickly outgrew them—the magazines, at least—and uses the space for more important things now. Like his gun.

It’s French made, of course, sturdy in his hands and unfalteringly loyal. Sirius received it from a man lurking in a dark alcove in the metro last month, a stranger with a rasping tenor who spoke only four words.

_Do the French remain?_

_Yes,_ Sirius told him, his eyes still wide and childish, growing colder from the war, but not yet venomous. When the next train thundered into the station, the man lifted his jacket and pressed the gun into Sirius’ hands, disappearing before the passengers even stepped onto the platform.

Sirius thought he might regret it. Taking a life. Watching the air drain from a man’s chest. Standing over someone’s son.

He doesn’t.

***

“Are you lost?”

Remus turns, trying to hold himself high. His uniform may feel like a costume, but this is not a game. “No, Sir, this is my assignment. I think. I’m not good with directions. Is this the Sixteenth?”

“Damn straight. Luc Becker,” a tall man grins, lumbering towards Remus in the middle of the street, abandoning his coffee on the table of a small café. Not much older than him, Luc is large in all the places Remus isn’t, his uniform hardly stretching over his broad chest. Beneath a pair of bushy blonde eyebrows, his green eyes are kind, not yet hardened by the toils of the war, his hair cropped short to his head. “Glad I’m not the rookie anymore.”

Remus shakes his hand, his clean palms a far contrast to Luc’s fingers, calloused and permanently stained with dust and soot. “Remus Lupin.”

“Hey!” Luc calls, wrapping an arm around Remus’ shoulders as a few other soldiers walk by with cases of beer in their arms. “Fresh meat, boys!”

The soldiers whoop, welcoming Remus to the squad. He sheepishly nods, still uncomfortable with the way his gun presses against his hip, the way Luc doesn’t seem to mind that his does the same.

“Did you just get off the train? You look like shit.”

When Remus checked his reflection in the window of a closed shop, the door barred with chains and locks, he hadn’t thought he looked too bad. He looks Luc up and down, raising his eyebrows. “You sure you’re in the right place? I thought the circus got held up in Hamburg.”

Luc grins, hooking an arm around Remus’ shoulders. “You’re my favorite already, Rookie. Shall I give you the grand tour?”

“As long as you show me where the showers are. You could use one.”

Luc leads Remus around the Sixteenth District, pointing out the grocer, the hotel, the restaurants, where to find the best beer and the best women. Remus nods along, taking note of the book store on the corner and the café down the street, only too aware of the Parisians watching them cautiously, hands balled into fists, eyes never turning away. As they continued through the district, the streets become less populated, the shops less cared for, the buildings less pristine. The outskirts of the Sixteenth were destroyed by the Germans some weeks ago, only damaging the beautiful city enough to force an unconditional surrender.

“It’s been quiet for weeks, but Snape insists we stand guard,” Luc says, crossing his arms on his chest and surveying the river like he owns it. “If you ask me, he’s only worried the French are going to try to take all the hair gel out of the city.”

“I heard he uses oil to slick it back.”

Luc snorts. “Probably does. And hey, if you see a pretty blonde girl walking around here, flowery dress, white hat,really nice singing voice? Hands off. Took me three weeks to get Katia to talk to me.”

“Thought you said I looked like shit.”

“You do. But you’ve got this thing in your eye.” Luc leans in real close, squinting at Remus. “You look like you could break a couple hearts.”

Remus shook his head. “I’m not here to break hearts.”

“That’s what they all say,” Luc winks. “In any case, Katia’s probably getting off work now. Her father’s bakery makes the best baguettes. If there’s one thing the French can do, it’s make a mean baguette. That wasn’t on the tour though; you’re not gonna steal my girl that easy, Rook.”

“Wait! What should I do?” Remus asks, glancing around at the destroyed buildings and empty street as Luc backs away, his mind already on other, prettier things.

“You’re on night duty! Take the tallest building near the river; there’s a room at the top with a mattress. Thank me later.”

Remus doesn’t mind night duty; if he strains his ears and listens real closely, the night isn’t as still as it seems, distant gunfire crackling far beyond the city. It’s still a wholly unfamiliar, unsettling sound; every bullet a body, every life a memory. Sleep would not come tonight, anyways.

Following Luc’s instruction, Remus claims the tallest building on the city limits, a clear view of the tree line, the gurgling river keeping him company. The top room is only five floors up, but with the added weight of his gun and the clumsiness that comes with learning how to walk in military boots, he stops for a break on the third floor, and pants when he finally makes it to the fifth.

As promised, there’s a west facing room towards the back, bare, save for a small wooden chair and a mattress shoved in the corner, the springs sagging and blankets yellowing. Remus leans his gun against the window, rolling his aching shoulders as he takes a seat in the uncomfortable chair. The gun soaks in the moonlight, staring at Remus with bared teeth, laughing as he cowers.

Remus doesn’t plan on pulling the trigger. Ever.

***

“You know the deal,” Sirius whispers, creeping through the alleys flush against the wall, dancing with the shadows as they moved through the dark streets. “Meet back at the square by midnight.”

“You say the same thing every night,” Regulus sighs, stepping so carefully, his feet don’t make a sound against the cobblestone. “You’re the one who always gets caught up.”

Sirius shrugs, guilty, but unaffected. “When the iron’s hot, you have to strike. I want the river.”

“I never get the river.”

“Older brother perks.”

“No fair.”

At the next intersection, the brothers pause in the safety of the shadows, Sirius looking left, Regulus looking right. They embrace tightly, hands clutching black jackets, memorizing the curves of their bodies, the smell of their skin, the rhythm of their pulse. The things they would quickly forget, should they never return. 

“Keep us safe in the shadows,” Regulus recites, his voice but a whisper, hardly audible, yet bursting with brute determination.

Sirius continues, the words tattooed on his tongue.“Let our breath not be caught.”

“May our shot be strong.”

“And our hearts be true.”

“Brothers Black bid _adieu_ ,” they conclude in unison, falling from each other’s arms and slipping into the night.

***

Sirius slithers through the rubble of the ruined district, carefully navigating the crumbled bricks, skirting around broken glass, dodging areas where a muddle of German voices rise above the crickets and the frogs. Their faces are on his list, but not tonight. Tonight is for the soldiers staked out near the river, holding the German line from any of the Westerners trying to win back their city.

Following the sounds of the river, Sirius makes his way down a narrow street, the summer air dampening his skin, the shirt under his jacket sticking to his chest. Beads of sweat already dot his forehead, but the adrenaline echoing in his ears pushes him forward. Farther down the lane, a large man lumbers towards him, his steps heavy with alcohol, his hands dragging against the wall to keep his balance.

Squinting, Sirius waits until the silver of his German badge catches the light. He’ll never make that mistake again. Removing the gun from his waistband, so cleverly hidden by the long lapels of his gentleman’s jacket, Sirius switches the safety lever off. The gun used to feel heavy in his hands, weighing down his shot. Now, it’s an extension of his arm, his fingers easily finding the indents on the grip from long nights of patrol and surveillance.

His shot echoes, but the night is silent just moments later. Sirius remains in the narrow street only long enough to ensure the man laying on the cobblestone does not stand up. His chest is still.

Sirius quickly retreats to the main road, protected by the shadows who commend him on a job well done. The French streets sing with one less German prowling the ruins of a once beautiful city. He makes it to the riverbank without incident, sticking close to the buildings to avoid the snipers on night watch. Gun in hand, he crawls into the tallest of the buildings and creeps up the stairs, slowly checking every room for a sign of life.

The building is empty, save for broken vials splintered on the floor, empty bags of plasma and broken scalpels beside it; an old hospital. There are no bodies, no stench of death radiating from the walls; the patients were evacuated in time. On the fourth floor, he finds a vacant office, the desk overturned and papers scattered on the ground.

High on the bookshelf, covered in a thick layer of soot, is a box of bandages; it might as well be a lump of gold. Sirius reaches on the tips of his toes, but the pads of his fingers only graze the box. He jumps, successfully snatching the bandages, but taking the rest of the shelf with him, trinkets and heavy books falling to the ground, the sharp edge of a picture frame slicing into his cheek.

Remus hears the books clattering from below, startling half out of his chair. Instead of bracing his gun in front of him and investigating the noise, he scrambles backwards, pressing himself into the corner of the room, perched on the mattress, praying a family of mice accidentally toppled a table. All is silent, and just when the tension eases Remus’ muscles, footsteps creep up the stairs. They disappear for only a moment, and then grow closer, closer, closer, until they’re standing in the threshold of the room.

Sirius stalks in, kicking the door with his foot. He winces as he presses his sleeve against his face, wiping the drips of blood from his skin. The door slowly swings closed, the hinges squealing in protest. Remus’ shoulders shake uncontrollably, and he clamps his teeth together to keep from chattering.

Sirius peers out the window, listening for boots marching on the cobblestones or the clinking of metal pins against rifle barrels, but the crickets sing their song uninterrupted. He sighs, licking his lips and rubbing his sweaty hands on his pants. There is still work to be done.

Sirius turns around with a newfound swagger to his step, freezing solid as a pair of eyes find his, blown wide and searing with panic. Remus clutches his gun to his chest, the barrel pointing at the ceiling, silently pleading with the boy to stay quiet, to stay still, to stay away.

Before Remus can blink, Sirius raises his weapon and pulls the trigger.

The gun jams.


End file.
